@AnnaTizard I struggled with this one. Oh well. The Vengeful Magic The moon spilled cold silver over the night’s jagged edges and dragged pale bars across the crypt’s open mouth. Inside, Willamina crouched barefoot on the damp stone, the hem of her skirt already heavy with grave-dirt. The iron pot between her knees coughed steam that smelled of crushed poppies, honey, and something sharper underneath. Tonight she would speak the words aloud. At last Django would be hers. His name was already written on the slip of birch bark floating in the brew—curled, black, patient. She had watched him at the festivals, the way his fingers found the guitar strings as if they had been waiting for him, the way he never once looked at her. That was going to change. Her grandmother’s book lay open on a broken slab. She pulled the love-root from the basket in haste, grabbing the wrong one. Instead, her fingers had closed around the darker twin. It looked almost the same once the dirt was wiped away. Almost. She hesitated only a moment, then dropped it in. The brew did not darken. It clarified. The steam thinned to a single rising thread that caught the moonlight and held it. On the surface of the liquid Django’s name uncurled and sank. In its place another name rose, letter by letter, as if written from below by a hand that had been waiting all along. Willamina’s. From that hour the vengeful magic bound her in wisps of smoke. Unable to move, she smiled into the black surface of the pot—enamored by her own reflection.

Whaaat? Another prompt!

Oooooh boy!

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Ok, Itsy Bitsy Spyder: Evolution flash sale is on! .99 cents, cheaper than a Dollar Store special. Better than fine wine. Horror that breaks all the rules. a.co/d/06i4Jo79

Later the ice would parse the lieutenant’s words of faith. Later the Mistress of the Long Night—that conjugal spirit born of men’s desire—would come visiting, one by one, her touch a fever in the bone that drew them naked into the dark. She would mate with their hubris and birth their undoing on the frozen plain. But for now, only the wind carried her faint, seductive sigh. J.R. Larriba

Oh boy!